


I Will Be Your Honey Bee

by dynamicsymmetry



Series: Sugar and Spice [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bethyl Smut Week, Bethyl Smut Week August 2016, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Masturbation, Season/Series 04, Sexual Fantasy, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7869499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a few weeks of nothing much except kissing, Beth has established to her own satisfaction that she wants more. She's not going to push too hard. But she might not have to. And "satisfaction" might be a whole other thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Be Your Honey Bee

**Author's Note:**

> This is season 4-era, and is assuming the catastrophic bloody flu-thing never happened and the prison never fell. So everything is nice. 
> 
> Written with [this porn gif](http://unfbadger.tumblr.com/post/149153390107/hershumbly-sneaky-boy-where-do-you-think-youre) as prompt from Unbadgr. Enjoy. ❤️

So maybe she shouldn't care, and maybe they should just go ahead and make it known to the prison at large, but far as Beth can tell, no one knows about her and Daryl. Not yet.

And for the present she's inclined to keep it that way. 

She's not afraid of anything specifically, not that she's been able to determine in the few weeks it's been going on. Maybe once the idea of what everyone might think would have been a pretty considerable source of anxiety. Maybe once she would have worried about freaking Maggie out. It's possible that she still should, in a bit of a cliche, be concerned about how _Daddy_ would react. But that's _once._ Sometimes she's sure she's a whole different person now. That might as well have been another life. 

Even before the world ended, the distance between sixteen and eighteen was considerable.

Anyway, no: she's not afraid of any one identifiable possible consequence. She's a goddamn adult. She’s lived through the deaths of two goddamn boyfriends. She should get to make up her own goddamn mind, make her own goddamn choices, and if she wants to make out with Daryl goddamn Dixon in the generator room or behind the watchtower or in the stairwell or anywhere they can find the space and the time, she should be allowed to do that without taking any shit for it. She would fight to defend that, without any hesitation and with very little patience. 

But as far as she can tell, no one knows about them, and the truth - she realized about a week ago - is that she _likes_ it that way. 

That first time, two weeks after Zach - two weeks during which they kept running into each other, ended up in close proximity for all kinds of completely innocuous reasons, both of them finding equally innocuous reasons to linger. He didn't talk to her much, seemed slightly uncomfortable even meeting her eyes for more than a few seconds at a time, but when she took kitchen duty, right then he always had food to bring in. When she was working in the garden, he was out repairing the fences a few yards away from her. When she was dealing with the walker buildup, he was right next to her doing the same. Little glances at her. Nods. Grunts. Snippets of conversation. Brushing her arm, her side, her shoulder. So many tiny things. 

She likes to think she can pick up on cues. It was only after she took a chance as he walked with her back to the block at dusk, nudged him into a dim corner and pushed up on her toes before he could ask her what she thought she was doing and sealed her mouth over his, that she realized he might have no idea how to pick up on them himself. 

Well. He picked up on it _fast_ after that. 

Since then, kissing is basically all they've done. Hesitant at first; he was awkward and clearly worried about doing something she wouldn't like. But he got over that too. They don't talk about it, mostly because she gets the sense he wouldn't know where to begin, but he's made it plain in all kinds of ways that he likes it. Likes it a _lot._ He’s eager. Not quite aggressive, but he could get there. He loves to rake his hands into her hair, get the strands tangled around his fingers until it stings and she laughingly complains. He loves to suck at her lip, careful but insistent, until it feels fat and swollen and she's gasping and laughing again. Hands on her sides, her waist, her hips; she frankly thought he might push things very far very fast, but he hasn't. Hasn’t pushed at all, this man who perhaps should be so much more demanding than two boys half his age. Hasn't even made any attempt to feel her up, let alone anything further. 

He's still nervous about that. She can tell. It's weird, and she comes close to worrying about it when she lets herself. One of these days she’ll crack and ask him what's wrong - not that she expects to get a straight answer - but for now… It's good. 

Even if she'd like more. 

Because she's really sure she would. She wasn't sure for a while there, but at this point she is. He's so much older and he's _Daryl_ and the whole thing is so damn _weird_ and not totally comfortable, but she's sure. She's very, very sure. 

In the meantime she can take care of herself. 

It's late. The block is quiet. She was updating her journal in the dim lamplight - nothing especially exciting or unusual but she had a few notes to make - and then all at once the pen and the journal were abandoned at her side and she was on her back with her eyes closed, her lip trapped between her teeth and her hand creeping under the waistband of her worn cotton sleep shorts, over the curls of her bush to points beyond. 

Hell, she just _wanted_ to. It's not like she needs a reason. 

Quick, before she cuts out the light. She’ll sleep better. She shifts to give herself more room, spreads her legs wider; it came on hard and sudden and it's glowing like a coal inside her, and she hisses in a little breath as her fingertips graze over her clit. She’s wet enough that it's immediately slick, clumping in her pubic hair and coating her fingers when she noses them between her lips. She bites back a whimper, teases at her entrance, and without her having to search for the image he's there bending over her, and her finger becomes his. 

Not the first time she's thought about him while she gets herself off. God, no. 

This, this is what she'd like. She adds her other hand to the first, pressing down on her clit and stroking in a tight circle as she slides her finger into her pussy and curves it upward. If he wanted to, this is what she'd like from him - except not his finger. Her face is burning, because this still feels just the slightest bit _bad_ : what his cock might look like, how big it might be, what it would feel like hard in her palm. There was Zach, but - Christ, poor Zach - she never thought about his _dick_ like this, never imagined him kneeling naked between her legs and holding it in his fist, dark and thick and glistening. She didn't imagine him braced above her and gripping her with one powerful hand on her waist, pulling her forward and in her with one thrust so deep she has to muffle her cry against her knuckles. 

She's half aware of the quiet smacking sounds as she fucks herself and rubs her clit in clumsy spiraling movements, half aware of a flicker of movement beyond her closed eyelids, but mostly it's just _him,_ fucking her in smooth rolls of his body - not fast but solid and rough to a degree she knows she’ll feel later. It aches like a bruise, throbs; she's so close, legs wound around his waist and moving with him, gasping into the hollow of his throat as she digs her nails into his powerful arms- 

That flicker again, and this time it grabs her and jerks her out of it. Her eyes snap open. 

For a split second she's positive she's still imagining it. 

No. She's not. In her imagination he's both searingly vivid and only partially formed, detailed in the ways she wants and nothing more. Essentially a shadow. A shade. He's not like _this,_ standing just inside her closed curtain with his fingers curled around the fold of its edge, his skin bled free of color and his eyes wide under the unkempt fringe of his hair, his lips loosely parted. 

If she was imagining him now, he wouldn't look utterly mortified. 

She doesn't move. She can't process. How long it's possible that he's been there. How much it's possible that he saw. 

Holy Christ, he saw enough to know what he walked in on. 

She swallows, and as if in unconscious mimicry so does he. Then she's pulling her hands out of her shorts - shit, that is _not_ helpful, because both of them are shining slick - and he's stepping back and shaking his head, dragging in a stuttering breath, muttering _fuck, fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-_

“Stop.” 

He does. He blinks at her, and the shock sweeping across his face is of a whole different flavor. 

He's not the only one shocked. She's not even immediately certain that the word came from her. But it _did,_ because who the hell _else_ would have said it, and anyway… 

Anyway, is this really so much of a problem?

She might be nuts, but she doesn't feel like it is. 

Slowly she sits up, now heedless of her sticky fingers. He's still frozen, gaping at her, as she swings her legs over the edge of the bunk and faces him squarely, gazing up at him. The light is being gentle with him, softening the parts of his features that it illuminates and casting the rest in shadow. He looks darker, larger, caught strangely somewhere between both old and young, and she knows then that she doesn't want him to go. 

She doesn't particularly care what they do. She simply wants him on this side of the curtain, for as long as he's willing to stay. 

“It's okay,” she murmurs, manages a small smile. It's probably too much to hope that he'll believe her. “Daryl… I swear, I swear it is. You don't have to leave.” 

“But I.” He halts and looks away from her, biting at his lips, his fingers now pulling at each other. “I just.” 

“You just what?” 

“I just wanted to see you,” he whispers, choked, and it's awful and she knows it's probably the precise wrong thing to do, but she has to laugh at that.

He stares at her again, and even as she tries to stifle her giggle against her wrist, she watches a heartbreaking combination of bewilderment and terror twist at his face, and she doesn't think there's enough _I'm sorry_ in the world. 

For the first time, she's getting a glimpse of how easily she might be able to hurt him. 

When it comes to sex, he is _nothing_ like she would have expected. 

“You saw me,” she says, gentle as the light, tips her head back and smiles more broadly. It's vaguely surprising how _not_ freaked out she actually is. “Why don't you come over here?” 

He licks his lips. She realizes that it's not impossible that he'll collapse to the floor. “Beth…” 

“C’mon.” She lifts her chin at him. “C’mere.” 

She's beginning to wonder if he might flat-out refuse, when he comes to her. 

He stops in front of her, looking down at her, at the bunk, at his boots, at everything at once. His eyes can't settle. His fingers are twitching at his sides. He appears to have no idea what to do with any part of himself. So all right, so she’ll figure it out for him, and she takes his hand - managed to wipe her own off fairly well on the sheet - and gives him a downward tug. 

“Kiss me.” 

He can do that much, at least. 

But he doesn't. He doesn't appear to understand. His eyes have fixed on her and aren't wavering, but they’re all blank incomprehension. She wants to laugh again; this is bizarre and even a little exasperating, but there's also something so _sweet_ about it, sweet in a way she never in a million years would have attached to the name _Dixon._ How she's starting to grasp the degree to which he hasn't been assuming he’ll eventually have access to her this way. How she's starting to grasp the degree to which he hasn't been assuming _anything._ How he's been more than satisfied with what he was getting from her. 

He's good. She knew he was a good man, but she didn't fully get it. 

“Kiss me,” she repeats softly, tugs him again. “I mean it. Come down here and kiss me, Daryl.”

Moving like he's in a dream, he lowers himself to his knees. 

Like this, his face is mostly level with hers, and he’s closer than she thought. Inches away. His hands are braced on the edge of the bed on either side of her hips and he's studying her, actively searching her, as if looking for some kind of sign. Some kind of direction clearer than what she's already given him - as if anything _could_ be clearer. 

Actually it probably could be.

She curls her fingers around a fold of his shirt, leans in and presses her lips against his. 

He tenses. Seems to coil, his eyes falling closed. For a breathless moment she thinks he might shy away. But then suddenly he's kissing her back, so abrupt it startles her, like a switch has been thrown somewhere in him and a new part of his brain has taken over. He lifts a hand to cup her jaw, tilts her head further back and to the side, and when she parts her lips he slips his tongue into her mouth and strokes over hers, sighing. 

This, he's familiar with. This is territory he knows. She can feel him unwinding into it, into _her,_ and as she leans more firmly against him, her knees against his sides and her other hand curved over the side of his neck - his pulse rapid under her fingers - she gives him another smile, one she knows he'll feel. She pushes back into him, tracing over the points of his teeth, and the second the moan escapes her she's conscious all over again of the heat in her cunt, how close she was to coming, how close she might still be. 

He saw her. 

He was mortified, yes. But maybe he was also enjoying the view. Even if he didn't think he should be. Because he didn't leave, did he? He's here. 

“I liked it,” she breathes, and his own breath catches as she skates her mouth down the line of his jaw. “You seein’ me like that. Watchin’ me. Did you like it too?”

He shivers, stiffens. He's still cupping her face and his hand tightens, fingers pressing into the back of her neck. “Shit, Beth.” 

“It's okay if you did.” It did something to her. She's bold in a way she doesn't recall ever being. She's lapping at his adam’s apple, sucking lightly at it, his stubble prickling her lips and chin. “You can like it. I want…” A sound between a laugh and another moan trembles out of her, and he echoes it, edged with lingering shock. “I want you. I want you to be with me.” 

Not exactly what she means. But it's close. And maybe it's best if she doesn't get too deep into specifics. 

He pulls back then, returned to studying her - though not totally like before. There's something new in his eyes, something sharper. Surer. 

Hungrier. 

“What do you want?” 

She can taste him on her lips, her tongue: a taste she now knows instantly but has never found a way to parse or define. She doesn't need to define it for it to pump need through her, seething between her thighs. What he was doing to her before, without even being here - getting her wet, getting her _drenched,_ fucking her hard and deep right up to the edge, and she glances down between them and she’s certain she's not imagining the bulge straining against his fly. 

He would probably do it. Fuck her. If she asked him to. He might do anything she wanted. 

“Whatever you want.” She grazes her lips against his, nuzzling at him. This is how she has to do it. Anything else feels unfair. “You can have whatever you want, Daryl.” 

He draws a breath and holds it, closes his eyes. For the briefest of moments he looks like he might be about to _cry,_ and she's afraid she's fucked it up somehow, stumbled into a painful place in him without knowing it was there and without any chance to understand it. But he doesn't cry. He does what he loves to do, combs his fingers into her hair, nearly touches his brow to hers and speaks against her mouth.

“I wanna.” He pauses. Swallows. Pushes on. “I wanna lick your pussy.” 

She gasps. Doesn't want to, and the next second she's worried all over again what he’ll think, but what it _does_ to her, hearing those words coming out of his mouth, like he's confessing some bone-deep secret, some desire he's hidden from everyone, and only later does she consider whether that's exactly what it was. 

How long he wanted to. 

“Oh, God.” Almost a whimper. Those lips, that tongue, that she's gotten to know so well over the past weeks. On her. _There_. 

No one has ever done that to her before. 

He's opening his mouth to speak again, but she doesn't give him a chance; she nods, nods _fiercely,_ her legs already spreading wider and one hand dropping to her waistband, plucking at it before she even realizes what she's doing. “Yeah. Daryl… Oh my God, please.” 

He pushes back from her, gaze rapt, and she doesn't look away from him as she lifts her hips, hooks her thumbs under her shorts and slides them down. 

She fucked Zach. She fucked him all of twice, and it was good, but it was also fast and mostly in the dark, a few stolen minutes of it, and she didn't feel any particular inclination to make it last. It's not how she thought it would be, not what she thought she wanted at sixteen years old in that other life, but nothing is, so she was fine with it. 

But Zach never looked at her like this. 

Not that he really had the _opportunity,_ but still. 

She kicks the shorts onto the floor and scoots back a little, watching him in a daze as he lays a shaking hand on her knee. Her legs aren't spread very wide, and it occurs to her that he's going to need space to _work_ , but before she can move he's bending and shifting his hand, pressing his lips to where it was, kissing her. Slow, open-mouthed, his tongue flicking against her skin, and she leans back on her hands and simply keeps watching, her own mouth dry. He doesn't just look rapt anymore; he looks _lost,_ kissing the top of her knee, past it, higher. She'd swear she can feel her _pulse_ in her clit, and her legs fall open as he nudges at her other knee. It's more than kissing; he's rubbing his face against her like a goddamn cat, his soft moan vibrating into her skin, the roughness of his cheeks and jaw and the heat of his breath and the broad swipe of his tongue as he licks up the inside of her thigh. 

“Daryl,” she whispers, and his eyes flick up to hers, and she chokes back a whine. He's so close, that heat on her lips - she can _see,_ how wet she still is, the sheen on her skin, beads of it in her curls, glimpse of her swollen clit at the apex of her lips. His own lips inches away. 

That _this_ is what he wanted. She said he could have anything, and he wanted this. 

“You're so fuckin’ beautiful.” He lifts a hand, touches her clit with a delicate fingertip, and she almost falls onto her back, groan trapped in her throat. “Beth…” 

He leans in and kisses it. 

It starts light, light as his touch - his lips on her clit, so careful. But he presses in more, harder, until his whole _face_ is practically jammed against her pussy, and as she clutches one-handed at the back of his head, he opens his mouth and pushes his tongue into her as far as it'll go, withdrawing it seconds later and swirling it over her. He's not just licking her; he's _eating_ her, sucking her labia, her clit, all delicacy gone though he's still moving achingly slow. Relishing it, moaning low in his throat, spreading her with both hands so he can have more of her. 

She forces herself to stay up, though her arm is tremblingly weak. She wants to watch him. She _needs_ to watch him. This is the most incredible thing she's ever seen. She didn't know it was possible for someone to _enjoy_ her this completely. He's eating her out like he kisses her - with all of himself, wanting to give her everything even if he can't quite get there yet. Except he's sure as shit there now, his nose and cheeks glistening with her juices, slurping sounds in her ears as he laps more of them up like water in a desert. She's trying to control her noise and it's just about impossible, tight whimpers escaping her no matter what she does, but she nearly sobs when he raises his head, panting. 

“You taste so good.” He sounds like he can hardly believe it. “I wanna… Ah, _shit._ ” 

He dives back in. 

She can't help it. Her head drops between her shoulders and she clamps her teeth down on the insides of her cheeks, the dim light blurring in her vision. She was close when she opened her eyes and saw him and she's close now, so much closer than she wants to be, because it would be perfect if this could go on for another _hour,_ for as long as he can do it - but then she gets it, she realizes.

If he's this into it, he's very likely going to want to do it again. 

She rolls her hips up, rocking against his face, one leg slung over his shoulder and her fingers woven through his hair. “You're gonna make me come,” she hisses through her teeth. “Daryl… Jesus _Christ,_ keep goin’, just like that, ohh, shitshit _shit_.” And the rest is pure incoherence peppered with the syllables of his name as she arches off the bed and bucks wildly against his mouth, and he grips her by the hips and latches on, burying his face in her soaked pussy like he wants to crawl inside her. 

She comes - and comes and _comes,_ wave after wave of it, cresting all over again just when she thinks it should be done, and she slaps her hand over her mouth to stop her cries, but it's no good; she's _loud,_ ringing her pleasure off the walls until abruptly she's crashing back down, collapsing into the mattress and gasping as he slowly releases her.

He's breathing as hard as she is. Distantly, she can hear him and feel him, his sticky cheek resting against her sticky thigh, hands loose at her hips. He might be kissing her again, or he might be saying something she can't make out, his lips moving over her skin. 

The entire world is a deep, warm buzz. 

At some point she finds the strength to lift herself on one elbow and look blearily down at him where he still rests against her leg. His eyes are closed, face relaxed; he might be dozing, but then his eyes open, bright and keen, and he raises his head and looks back at her. He's a damp mess. 

She's not sure she's ever seen him happy like this. Stunned, but happy. Stunned _and_ happy. 

“Daryl,” she whispers, and strokes his hair with a shaking hand, combing it back from his face. “That was…” A quiet laugh escapes her, shaky as her hand. “Wow.” 

The corner of his mouth twitches, and he lowers his head and kisses her curls. 

She stays where she is for a moment or two, her brain piecing itself back together, her fingers continuing to work through the tangles of his hair. He seems perfectly content to remain where he is. Perfectly satisfied. 

It comes to her: he got what he wanted. 

So she should too.

“I want you to stay,” she murmurs, and he looks up again, brow slightly furrowed. 

“Huh?” 

“You heard me. I want you to stay with me. Tonight.” She hesitates. She's been bold, but now she's not quite so sure of her ground. “I mean… If you want.” 

He's quiet for a few seconds. Then he smiles faintly and ducks his head. “Bed’s kinda small.” 

“You can get close.” 

He laughs softly, warm against her, and she thinks once more about how _sweet_ he is, and how she's only now beginning to understand how much. “Alright.” 

He doesn’t seem interested in her reciprocating. He doesn't undress. She doesn't bother with her shorts. She won't push. Like everything else here, it's weird, and she doesn't care. She cuts off the light and snuggles into his arms as he wraps her up. The cell is full of the smell of her, and she has no problem whatsoever with that. And he, as he always does, has found a way to make it plain to her how much he likes it. 

As she drifts off, it occurs to her that the entire block probably knows about them now. Or if they don't now, they will by the end of tomorrow. The whole prison will. News travels at the speed of light here. 

That's fine. She liked it while it was secret, but she likes this much better. And he should get to have it whenever he wants. Whatever he wants. 

She'd like more. There's a lot more to have.


End file.
